Ligita Sternbergs - To the Bitter End: A Mothers Story of Her Daughters Murder

A mothers memoir
of her daughters murder

F OREWORD

Where were you yesterday? the duty sergeant asked when I called on my morning rounds for the newspaper. We had a murder up your way.

Who was killed?

A woman, he replied, stabbed to death.

So thats what those sirens were about yesterday, I thought, as I started to record the details, little realising then that what was unfolding would stay with me to this day.

I never knew Ingrid Lester, even though our homes were only a short distance apart, but over the next three years I would be drawn professionally and emotionally deep into her tragic tale.

My involvement with Ingrid (although I didnt know it at the time) actually started more than a year before her brutal murder when she was attacked and terrorised in her home by her estranged husband, Jim.

Then it was just another police rounds story, without names, but with enough details for a page one report.

This attack, however, was only the precursor to a series of horrific events.

In the space of little more than 12 months, Ingrids companion, Alisdair Morrison, was viciously attacked by Jim Lester and she tragically lost one of her sons in a motorcycle accident.

Then, out of the night, came the contract killer who had been promised $10,000 by Jim Lester, to get rid of Ingrid.

It was only the next day when I did the death knock on the front door of the home of Ligita Sternbergs, Ingrids mother, and started

to look at the family pictures and listen to Ligitas grief that I found myself being drawn into Ingrids story.

At Ingrids funeral, as the haunting lyrics of David Grays Sail Away echoed around the chapel, tears were raining down my cheeks; so much for the hard-bitten reporter whos seen it all and is touched by nothing.

Now Ingrids mother has written the story of her life and death, and I challenge you to remain untouched, and unmoved, by this great Australian tragedy.

Ernie Paussa (retired)
Fraser Coast Chronicle

A part of my heart lies dormant .

The part that held my daughter .

The part that leapt with happiness when I saw her ,

Her smile, her jokes, our cosy chats;

The hugsjust knowing she was there .

Like a withered rose, the beauty of her creation

Has passednever to return .

MM

C ONTENTS

I NTRODUCTION

When Ligita asked me to help write an account of her daughters life and tragic death, I was hesitant at first. Given the nature of the story I knew it would involve sadness, but I like challenges, and I like to keep busy. I have achieved both in the months it has taken to bring the book together.

I have known Ligita for many years as a quiet, private, unassuming woman. As I started on the interviews and the story unravelled, I had not realised before what an interesting, sad, frightening, eventful life she has lived, all with so much bravery and dignity.

Halfway through the book I experienced tragedy in my own life, when my beloved son was killed in a horrific car accident. Ligita helped me cope with the sorrow, and her quiet courage gave me the inspiration to work through my grief as she had, and is still doing.

My children grew up in the same neighbourhood, and attended the same schools as Ingrid, but I knew her only in passing. When I saw her in the street my eyes were drawn to her blonde beauty. I now feel admiration toward her for the courage she showed in her short life. She loved life and was an inspiration to people with adversities.

This book contains thirty-five chapters, the number of years Ingrid had in this life.

I am dedicating my contribution to this book to my son, John, and to Ingrid, as they were almost the same age when their young lives were cut short in a tragic way.

May all the young souls out there be at peace, and soar free, as they explore the magnificent heaven. I look forward to a wonderful reunion one day.

Margaret Marlow

* Some of the names in this book have been changed.

T he shrill ring of the phone bores through the late evening stillness.

Whos this? I ask, abruptly.

Its Cindy, Ligita. Have you seen Ingrid? Shes not answering her phone.

No, Ive been asleep. I spoke to her earlier. She didnt mention going out tonight.

Dont worry, Ill try tomorrow. Sorry. Bye.

I pad back to bed, annoyed by the thoughtless interruption. My daughter often goes out to visit friendsalthough Cindy, Ingrids best friend, did sound concerned. The events of the last few weeks have left me with a festering uneasiness. My daughters estranged husband has proved to be a dangerous man. Now the settlement issues will fuel his rage again.

Ingrid did say Jim spoke to his solicitor in Melbourne today. Yes, Im sure thats what she said on the phone this afternoon. Jims miles away right now, so Ingrids okay. Ill ring her first thing in the morning, I assure myself aloud, before falling asleep.

I wake with a start, disturbed again, not sure what has roused me this time. Loud knocking sounds at the door. I hurry to investigate, glancing at the clock in the kitchen as I pass. Its 2 am. Good God. Whats going on?

Two police officers appear, iridescent under the verandas glaring light.

Er, Mrs Sternbergs? says the taller one, a torch held in his hand.

Yes. My heart pummels against my chest. Is this about Ingrid?

Ingrid Lester, yes. Is she your daughter?

She is. Whats wrong?

Were sorry, Mrs Sternbergs. Theres

So hes here. How did he do it? I sense what the officers about to say. Ive feared for my daughters life for months. My intuition told me it would happen. I just didnt know when.

Dont tell me anything, I plead. I need Richard beside me. Richardmy confidante, my rock. I cant face this alone. I need my friend to lean on.

Can we come in and call him for you?

Hand shaking, I flick open the screen door.

Ill call him, my voice quavers, as I head for the phone, officers at my heel.

Please pick up, Rich, I pray silently.

Yesssa sleepy voice answers.

Its me, Rich. Come quickly. Somethings happened to Ingrid. Please hurry.

What?

The police are hereyou must come now. I drop the phone. Questions can follow later.

The men in their authoritative uniforms hover around, waiting. Theres no small talk. Bad news is serious business. I sit, eyes and mind fixated on the scuff mark spoiling the otherwise perfect shine on the officers polished shoe. The long minutes tick by.